▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️

▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️

My punch bounces off the air mattress without a sound. I'd love to have the space to stand up and run through a settling Tai Chi routine Master Chang taught me my first year of me practicing with him, cause punching the walls is not an option. Screaming is a contender, but that doesn't sound like something the rest of the bus would appreciate.

Fuck.

What was I doing? I'm such a selfish prick: driving my agenda and badgering her into a conversation she's not interested in having.

On her birthday.

Fuck.

The unformed words scratch at my throat. What a fantastic way to screw things up. This is not the me I've been working so hard on creating. I don't make such stupid mistakes anymore. I think before I do. Angie borrowed into my chest, my thoughts, and, for the first time in my life, I understand what being obsessed means.

I can fix this. I glance at my phone and the flash mob is supposed to begin in twenty minutes. We can do that first and then I find a way to explain to her what the crossroads of her present and my future look like. In the same city or not, she runs my heart ragged. I'm not a poet, but I will find the words to fucking make her believe me, believe in me. I put the spare clothes on and rush out of our impromptu bedroom.

The bus is buzzing with activity. Happy birthday banner hangs over Angie's bunk. A pile of colorful boxes takes more space on it than she would've if she were there. I rap on the door of the bathroom.

"You okay in there?" I say to the brown Formica divider. The sound of running water is the answer I get. Fuck. What do I do now? I can hide in the back of the bus and wait for her to run out of water, or I could see if I might make her some coffee and get something to eat without messing up more of today.

I drop my present onto Angie's bunk, where mine isn't the weirdest shape. Something that is either a bong or a gourd out-glitters my wrapping job, because it has stings of metallic material bunched around it like a futuristic oblong bird nest. If the birds were addicted to shiny metal strips. I might've seen something like that on National Geographic. I place my cylinder on the side and run my nail over the tape that affixes the card with my name to the rough material of the paper. Wouldn't want her to think this one is from anyone but me.

To the front of the bus it is.

"Where's the birthday girl?" Poppy waves me over to the couch where the rest of The Whats are lounging in what I can only call PJs that might do well in a Christmas Land's End catalog.

I tear my eyes away from the obnoxious red bottoms with reindeer design. Those alone would've been fucking hilarious. They pale in comparison with the matching white wife-beaters the three guys have on: black pom-poms mark the place where the nipples should be and form the eyes of four grotesque-looking reindeer on their chests. Giant red pompoms-the reindeer noses-mark the navel of each band member. Poppy is wearing an elf outfit, pointy ears and all.

"Freshening up." I reach for a clean mug. Coffee cups and a bottle speckled with something green on the inside litter the kitchenette. "Guess the three second rule does not apply to her."

"Birthday privileges come with unlimited use of the resources." Oliver, the lead singer, reaches under the couch and pulls a box he offers me. "For you." The band members exchange knowing smiles. Neil stares at me with a mischievous glee in his eye I don't like one bit.

Poppy gestures for me to take the mystery item. "Hurry up. Hope it fits."

"Is this-"

"Your costume. No time, mate. Put it on." Oliver throws the box at me, and I catch it with both hands. "The show starts in ten."

I look for a seam to open it.

Poppy waves me away. "Go back, lock the door, open the box, and if you still have questions, you can come out and ask them, mate. Be a sport. Don't make me regret getting you on this bus."

Back at our quarters, the smell of every pleasure we catalogued last night lingers. I'd open the windows, but there are probably rules about that. Angie would know what to do, but she's hiding in the bathroom. I'd talk to her through the door, but with the busload of gossip-hungry audience, it's safer to wait and talk it over when she's back. We can iron it out. I rip the tape off the box and pull out my Santa costume: red cheap fuzzy material with a matching hat trimmed in equally peeling tufts of white fake fur, plus a fake wavy beard and mustache combo. My heart starts to beat way too fast. The memories of the last time I wore one flood my brain.

My mind conjures a vision of me drunk, high, wearing a similar costume, slumped in the passenger seat of a stolen car. My stomach lurches at the memory. A gateway to hell. The hell I've done everything to erase from my life. A stupid suit can't, shouldn't hold so much power over me. Putting it on is the last thing I want to do, but this just might be a way for me to prove to Angie I'm not a boring planner, she thinks I am. That I can enjoy the moment. That I'm not too set in my ways.

She was not wrong in her analysis of me. The me of today is exactly the buttoned up structural engineer with plans and a bike as my only outlet to let loose. But that hasn't always been true. The outfit lies on the rumpled sheets on top of the air mattress. This is just a costume. I'm not the same person I was in college. I can have some fun and not end up in jail. For her, I'd be a fucking cheap Santa. I blow out a sharp breath. I'm going to be fun today. Angie won't be able to say I can't live in the present.

I ignore the storm of memories in my head, strip to my boxers, tug the red leggings on, tie the contraption that's a cross between a pillow and a harness around my stomach, and zip the coat on. The beard covers my stubble but catches my morning breath in the too long mustache strands. Wig and hat on, I only lack boots to be a proper mall Santa. My biking boots give the outfit a dangerous vibe. If I'd have chosen sneakers for my visit, this getup would've been ridiculous. Perspiration gathers around the collar. My face itches under the phony stands, my pulse picks up. Who am I kidding: everything is ridiculous with this getup.

The bus stops. "Out, mate. It's show time." Oliver's voice is serious.

I clear my throat and put my game-face on. Although only my eyes and nose must be visible behind the synthetic locks. I slide the door open.

"It fits," a giant furry reindeer head with...antlers...talks to me in Oliver's voice. "This was the largest they had-we didn't want out Santa look like his outfit shrunk in the dryer. Everyone's outside. We have five minutes before the music starts." The deer head with wife-beater, flannel pants, and a fresh addition of brown furry long-sleeved jacket heads to the front of the bus. How is this reality? And where the fuck is Angie?

We get off the bus in the middle of an outdoor mall parking lot. Nine reindeer are milling around, some of them carrying their fluffy heads in their arms. There are also more elves.

"You're doing it?" Angie's voice makes me turn around.

She's putting on a snowflake outfit, and her face shines with delight I've only seen on her when she's writing her songs. The smothering doubt that our conversation about our future this morning ruined her birthday fades away. I grin, even though there's no way anyone can see the lower half of my face.

"Surprise," I say. Her smile falters. I'm not letting her think back to pour planning conversation. Today I'm a fun Mike. A Mike who walks around the mall with a bunch of rockers in Christmas outfits at the end of January. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Especially on your birthday. Even if it's shouting ho-ho-ho in a Santa costume in the middle of the mall." I'm as close to her as my voluminous stomach and the plastic spikes on her outfit let us get to each other.

She rests one of her hands on my shoulder and kisses the sleek fake mustache that covers my mouth. "Thanks for playing along. The crew knows how much I love this stuff, but I didn't know they were planning a surprise flash mob."

"That's why it's called a surprise."

But her smile only grows wider. "Indeed."

"We're moving. Let's go, people." A man I've seen on the bus but have never been introduced to shouts ten feet away from us. He's not wearing a costume but has headphones with one ear on and a camera with him. "Angie, your mike." He hangs a wiry beige contraption over her ear. "Say something."

"Something." Angie taps the mike with her finger.

"It works. Let's do this."

This is happening. Every part of the outfit suffocates me: the jacket is too tight in the shoulders, the extra stomach doesn't let my ribs move properly, the facial hair catches the fresh air, and leaves me with the drags of my recycled morning breath. Maybe I should go back to the bus and wait for her there. This was a bad idea. I am not fun or wild. Who was I trying to kid?

Angie's hand finds my fingers-another oversight from whoever procured the costume and forgot about the mittens or gloves-and the circuit closes. The electricity only she triggers in me flows between us. I remember why I'll keep flying all over the country and wear whatever the hell brings her joy. The energy she feeds me through her touch cleanses the nightmares of my past, removes the impurities, drips happiness-the special addictive Angie flavor-directly into my veins.

"Ready?" Her voice tells me she is ready and excited about this stupid outing, and about me being part of it. I can do it for her, no matter how uncomfortable I feel.

Music blares from the speakers around the mall. The Saturday morning shoppers are not numerous, but we catch their attention. I recognize the melody.

"Santa Baby," Angie sings. She swings our hands, and we walk along the wide pedestrian-only street between the stores. Angie's all seduction, flirtation, and perfect singing. This is the first time the idea of being the Santa of this performance, her Santa, brings a smile to my lips. We might just have to repeat this when we are alone, and me stripping her outfit while she sings is an option. Whatever this woman is doing to me scares the fuck out of my mind, but I want more of it.

People stop, pull out their phones, and film the absurd procession of singing reindeer, dancing elves, me as a ho-ho-hoing Santa Claus, and my prickly singing snowflake.

"Ready," I say. Her voice drowns my words. I'm ready for whatever Angie throws my way. I squeeze her fingers in mine. Wild or not, I'm never letting you go, because you're so fucking worth it.